


A Winter's Tale

by LindenE



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 15:16:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17942132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LindenE/pseuds/LindenE
Summary: Night watches often lead to conversations.





	A Winter's Tale

Alarm is a lovely spell, but it doesn’t keep things out. It only lets you know once they’re in.

Because it had been a hard day where everything seemed to want to kill them, and all the clerical magic had been needed to simply keep everyone alive by killing everything else, they were left at the end with not enough to completely heal. Because of the danger, they had decided to set watches to guard against the return of anything that goes bump in the night. All of them were wounded, to greater or lesser degrees. Without access to healing spells, and with not enough desperation to resort to the scarce and expensive healing potions, they were pushing through till morning and the healing blessing of a long night’s rest.

It meant, though, that the second watch, which Caleb had volunteered for, was a struggle. The first hours of the night, he’d dozed fitfully, constantly (it seemed) aware of the gouges and holes he’d suffered earlier. When he was shaken awake to take his turn, it had felt less like awakening from a long slumber, and more like bowing to the inevitable. Jester, who had also volunteered to take this watch, looked almost as bad as he felt. 

Suppressing a groan with an effort, he lowered himself onto a fallen log, facing the small, furtive fire they’d kindled for some fragment of warmth while trying to remain inconspicuous. The cold wind whipped through in gusts, blowing sparks in a glowing stream into the surrounding darkness, but stealing any possible warmth. Shivering, he wrapped his scarf tighter, tucked his hands into his sleeves, and wished for the fifteenth time that day that Frumpkin was a cat, rather than a falcon. Falcons had many advantages for scouting purposes, but cuddling up for warmth wasn’t one of them. He stared into the fire and tried not to think about anything but the possibility of Frumpkin finding danger or his alarm bells ringing.

Out of the darkness beside him, he heard Jester’s voice. “Caleb?” she said, sounding forlorn. He looked up. “I’m freezing, and everything hurts. Do you mind if I share your log?”

“No, of course not,” he said, shifting over to make room, and hoping the darkness masked his involuntary wince as he moved. He felt her settle next to him, and after a few minutes he supposed it was warmer on the side where their bodies touched, marginally. He felt a faint vibration there, and after a bit identified it as Jester’s shivering.

“Talk to me, Caleb,” came her voice. “I’m going to fall asleep sitting here if you don’t.”

Talking was dangerous, and best avoided. “Your stories are much better than mine, Jester. You’re a better conversationalist than I am. Why don’t you talk about...” He mentally cast about for a hopefully safe subject, and at random, picked one he hoped she wouldn’t be able to resist. “Tell me about the Traveler, and his visits to you when you were a little girl.”

He heard a huff, and couldn’t decide if it was a snort or a stifled laugh. “But Caleb, you already know all about that, I’ve told you guys about the Traveler a lot. Tell me something new. Tell me... tell me about when you were a little boy? What was it like, being able to go outside and play and have friends and do whatever you wanted?”

Ah. He knew how restricted her childhood had been, even though she insisted it was good, and having met Marian, there was no longer any doubt in his mind that it had at least been full of love. But the normal explorations, friendships, the give-and-takes and discoveries of childhood– many of those, she had missed, and no doubt felt the lack even if there was also abundant love to make up for it. And those, he’d had in full. It felt safe. It was before any of the horrible had crept in.

“Uhhh... well, it was good. It was fun. We used to– there was a wood, a small one, very close to my house, and we used to go there every chance we got, when we were not in school or doing chores or the weather was bad. We would just play, and dream, and explore. We would climb trees and build forts in them. We would imagine monsters attacking our fort, and we would fight them off bravely.”

He took a breath. It occurred to him that he hadn’t thought about his childhood enough recently. It had been, of his entire life, the happiest time.

“Once, we built a hut out there. We didn’t have tools or knives or anything, of course, so it was all just what we could find. Three walls, with sticks and woven wild vines, a roof with more sticks and leaves and bracken... and when it was done, we crouched inside and imagined sleeping there and being safe from the wind and rain. Of course, we never did really sleep there– we went home to dinner and a nice soft bed.. And I’m sure if it had rained, it would have poured through our hut roof. There were not so many leaves on it, and they were not very large.” He found himself smiling, remembering the sense of satisfaction he had felt, looking at the completed hut.

Jester had been quiet, warm against his side. “It sounds wonderful,” she said softly. “What else did you do?”

He thought about it. “Well, in the winter, when there was a fresh snowfall, there was a hill that was perfect for sledding.” Struck by a thought, he looked over at her, leaning against his shoulder, a child of the semi-tropical coast. “Do you know what sledding is?”

She giggled. “Yes, Caleb, I’ve read books. I read books, too, you know!”

“I never thought otherwise. Well. It was the perfect sled hill. The top was at the edge of that wood, and then it went down steeply, with two small dips, and then a large dip at the bottom, and a long, almost flat stretch down to a creek. If you were clever about steering, and if you were going fast enough from the steep part at the top, you could steer along the curve of the creek for a long time. Of course, if you were not clever, you could end up in the creek– but if it was cold enough to be sledding, it was cold enough that the water was frozen, too. At least, usually.

“We would stay out there for hours, speeding down the hill, going as far as we could, then dragging our sleds back to the top to try again. We would get very cold, but it was so much fun we didn’t want to stop. And then finally, go back home with hands and feet numb, and it hurt as they warmed up again. We would sit by the fire, and Mutti would make us hot choco–“

His voice cut off as though it had been chopped by an axe. Too late, he saw the pit yawning in front of him. Staring into the fire, seeing the figure of his mother silhouetted in front of it, leaning over to make the hot chocolate, his Mutti, younger then than he was now. Fire leaping from the hearth, catching at her skirt, eating her hair, burning behind her eyes and her mouth, open as she screamed, and screamed, and screamed....

He was on his feet, he wasn’t sure how. Fire was flickering at his fingertips, unsought and unconscious, and Jester was pulling at his arm, saying urgently over and over, “Caleb– Caleb– Caleb–“

He took a deep breath, into lungs that felt like they hadn’t tasted air in hours. Caleb was not the person who belonged to that memory, or to that childhood, or to that burning mother. Caleb was someone new, someone fresh, someone without memories and scars.

“I’m– sorry,” he got out. To have something to do, some explanation for standing, he went over and threw another large branch onto the fire. When he turned back, in the suddenly brighter light that created, he saw Jester, also standing, watching him with a look of– fear? That surely wasn’t fear, was it? “I’m sorry,” he said again, for lack of anything else to offer her.

She was still watching him, wide-eyed, but unmoving. He could see the thoughts moving behind her eyes. “No, don’t be sorry,” she said at last. “What was it that set it off? Your mother?”

_Scheisse._ “It was a long time ago. Another lifetime ago.” He stopped, hoping she’d drop it, and sat down again heavily.

She sat next to him and was quiet again, and he began to think he was safe, when she spoke. “Caleb? Why are you afraid of fire?”

His breath stopped for a moment. The same question Beau had asked months ago; the answer he’d evaded when he finally, finally told the rest of the Nein the least painful parts of his past. He’d known that likely wouldn’t be the end of it, but had dared to hope...

She was speaking again. “Is it something that happened when you were Bren? When you were young?”

Of them all, she was the one he couldn’t bear to hurt, to puncture that almost perpetual, impossible optimism. To cause her sadness was like kicking a puppy. He knew it would happen again eventually, as it had happened in the past, but now right now. Not now. Now, he had control. From somewhere, he found the strength to smile, and look like he meant it.

“One day, Jester, I’ll tell you about it. It was a long time ago, and I am coming to the point of– not forgetting about it, but learning to live with it.”

He reached over and gave her a brief hug around the shoulders. “I treasure your friendship. You know that?”

After a moment, she hugged back. “Yes I do.” she said. “You’re a good guy, Caleb. Try to remember we all think so.” Their arms dropped, and they were both quiet again, staring into the slowly fading remains of their tiny fire. From the darkness, she spoke again. “Someday, maybe you’ll think so, too.” 

He managed a smile, and a nod, and there was blessed silence. Someday. Maybe. All of hope lived in those two words.


End file.
